


Plum

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir bandages Aragorn up.





	Plum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s good to be home. He loves the wild, he truly does—he loves the feeling of the wind in his hair, his horse swift beneath him, the scent of the warm earth all around him. He doesn’t mind sleeping in the grass, right under the stars. But it’s still good to sit on a soft bed again, and to have the shade of a roof shielding the sun that gleams in through the balcony.

He sits on the center of his mattress, shirt peeled away, and truly _relaxes_ , like he never can outside these borders. The softest creature he’s ever known sits beside him, quietly humming a new lilting melody. Aragorn’s missed those songs just as much as his bed. He missed the gentle smile that often tugs at Lindir’s lips, the depth of his dark eyes, and the fall of his oak-coloured hair. In lavender robes of silk and silver trim, Lindir draws his long fingers through the bowl. He collects the crushed paste of green herbs and pink flowers, and he brings them up to smooth along Aragorn’s skin. The purpled bruise fades beneath Lindir’s studious attention, left to glimmer and shine.

The sores don’t hurt anymore. The herbs work quickly, and Lindir’s mere presence is a balm, but most of all _Imladris_ heals him. Aragorn sits still, patient, watching the beauty of Lindir’s face while Lindir eyes his body, not lustful but admiring and caring. Lindir soothes away his aches with each gentle rub, then finally reaches the bottom of the bowl, and Aragorn’s whole arm is coated, nothing left of his pain to see. Lindir sets the bowl aside and collects the long strip of white fabric he’s already cut. 

As he wraps it around Aragorn’s forearm, Aragorn murmurs, “I could have done this.” And he probably should’ve—surely Lindir has more to do than cater to the little cuts and scrapes of a full-grown man. Like finish the composition of his latest tune. Aragorn knows well enough how to heal himself, and he’s well versed in all the Elven remedies—Elrond saw to that. If he hadn’t been already on his way here, he would’ve made do in the wild.

But Lindir answers only, “That is what you have attendants for.”

Aragorn lifts one brow. “I do not have attendants.” In fact, he only just rode in from Bree, where he’s considered no more than a ragged peasant—the contrast is a source of great amusement.

Smiling sweetly, Lindir finishes wrapping the bandage, all the way up to Aragorn’s bicep, where he tucks the end in place. Then he bends forward to place a chaste kiss against Aragorn’s shoulder, and he sighs, “Please, be more gentle with yourself, my prince.” He moves to slip off the bed afterwards, carrying the empty bowl, but Aragorn reaches for his wrist.

Aragorn tells Lindir, “Thank you.” He means for more than just the healing, but for the attitude, the reverence, the kindness—everything that Lindir is to him. Lindir dips in a graceful bow. 

He leaves, humming to himself once more, and Aragorn grins in his wake, hoping soon to hear that finished song.


End file.
